The door opened again without a sound.
Aren hadn't moved since Director Hale left. He'd tested the room—pushed at the air, focused on speed, on lift. Nothing responded. The space wasn't empty.
It was designed.
Two guards stepped in first, weapons low but ready. Between them walked a man.
No—someone.
He was young. Younger than Aren. Early twenties, maybe less. His hair was streaked white at the temples, not from age but from something deeper, wrong. His eyes were dull, unfocused, like they were always chasing something just out of reach.
He wore a plain gray uniform.
Patient. Not prisoner.
"Sit," one of the guards said.
The man obeyed instantly, dropping into the chair opposite Aren.
The guards left.
Silence returned.
The man stared at Aren for a long moment, then smiled suddenly—too wide, too fast.
"You're the fast one," he said. His voice trembled. "The flyer."
Aren frowned. "You know me?"
"Everyone knows you now." The man tapped his temple lightly. "You shook the air. Felt it even in here."
Aren studied him. "What's your name?"
The smile faltered.
"…I don't remember."
That landed harder than any punch.
"They took it," the man continued, rubbing his hands together. "Said it made things easier. Less resistance."
Aren's stomach twisted. "Took what?"
"My edges," he replied cheerfully. "My stopping point."
Aren leaned forward. "What can you do?"
The man hesitated. His fingers twitched.
"I was like you," he said. "Not flying. Not running. But I could… slow things. Make moments stretch."
Aren's eyes widened slightly.
"Time?"
"Not exactly," the man said. "Perception. Mine. Others'. I could hold onto seconds like they were hours."
He laughed softly. "Didn't know when to let go."
The lights overhead flickered.
The man's smile began to shake.
"They told me to practice stillness too," he said. "But when you slow the world long enough… it doesn't come back the same."
Aren felt cold creep up his spine.
"What did they do to you?"
The man tilted his head, listening to something Aren couldn't hear.
"They helped," he said slowly. "They taught me how to survive inside the pause."
His eyes suddenly focused—sharp, terrified.
"And then they kept me there."
The room seemed to bend. The air grew thick, sluggish. Aren's thoughts dragged, like moving through syrup.
The man gasped.
"Sorry—sorry—I didn't mean to—"
Aren forced himself to breathe, to ground his feet, to stay still.
"Hey," Aren said firmly. "Look at me. You're here. You're not alone."
The pressure eased. The room snapped back to normal.
The man sagged in his chair, shaking.
"They said I was a success," he whispered. "But I can't go outside anymore. Everything moves too fast. It hurts."
Aren clenched his fists.
"Why show me this?" he demanded, looking toward the hidden cameras. "What's the point?"
The speakers crackled.
Director Hale's voice filled the room.
"This is the point," she said calmly. "Power without restraint doesn't make heroes. It makes casualties."
The door opened again.
Guards returned.
The man stood obediently, already retreating into himself.
Before he was led away, he looked back at Aren.
"Don't fight them," he said softly. "Speed breaks first."
Then he was gone.
The door sealed.
Aren sat alone, heart pounding—not from fear.
But from anger.
They weren't protecting the world.
They were breaking people and calling it control.
Aren leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting toward the ceiling.
"Stillness," he whispered.
The wind stirred—barely.
And for the first time since his capture, Aren smiled.
Because he finally understood the lesson.
Stillness wasn't surrender.
It was waiting.